


It Doesn't Suck.

by Bitsy



Series: The Suck Series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, New Year's Resolutions, Pack Dynamics, Transgender, UST, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Bitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So! What are everybody's resolutions?"  "I've already made mine. And it's private."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Doesn't Suck.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of of my story titled "That Must Suck." It was originally intended as a stand-alone piece, but then I got thinking about Tattooed Magical Hipster!Stiles, and it snowballed from there.

He very clearly remembered his very first tattoo. It wasn't even _his._ But the agony of it was firmly embedded in his mind for what was probably the rest of his unnatural life. Holding Scott down while Derek used a freaking _blow torch_ on him, searing his flesh like a steak on Master Chef. (Afterward, he'd realized that Derek had been maybe a bit too accommodating in his desire to burn Scott with actual fire. Why did he love the freakazoid again?) So when he'd gotten his second tattoo, which was actually his first, he was way less freaked out by it. Mainly because it didn't involve a gout of flame at six thousand degrees Fahrenheit. A needle was no big thing, thanks, bring it on and what's for dessert?

Unconsciously, he brushed his fingertips across his left clavicle, just above his heart. He could trace the blue-black outline of the stark shape by memory. The Serpent's Eye, locking down the darkness. It was a design of his own making, which had caused the tattoo artist to raise one eyebrow. Most magical tats were grounded in centuries-long tradition; leave it to Stiles to buck that tradition and do his own thing. He'd been inspired by a satire book, of all things. Commander Vimes had been branded by the Following Dark, and Stiles found he rather fancied that idea. Time to turn the darkness into its own guardian. And to everybody's surprise but Stiles, it had worked. The tattoo had taken the darkness tormenting him, twisted it up on itself, and forced the flow out and away, caged it and controlled it. The Following Dark was now just that. It had to simply follow Stiles, it could no longer lead. Chalk one up to nerdly knowledge and a geeky reading list. The darkness was still there, of course, but Stiles no longer feared it. He had nothing but the utmost respect for it. It was like handling a wild animal. No sudden movements, no challenges, no thinking it could be used. In fact, the symbolism of the need to contain it prompted his next tattoo: The Ouroboros, the serpent devouring itself. That one was placed on his left shoulder blade, opposite the Following Dark.

The symbols had meaning. The placements had meaning. He was slowly turning his skin into a magical canvas.

Well, except the three inch Boba Fett bust tattoo on his upper thigh. That one was just for fun. If a druid couldn't have a little fun every so often, what was the point?

Stepping out of his shower, Stiles made his way back to his room, towel slung low across his hips. The steam trailed after him, clung to him like the water was still desperate for his touch. And it probably was; since he'd started to control his spark and use his belief, he found himself wetter than usual, dirtier than usual, easier to breathe than usual, warmer than usual. No wonder Deaton kept his clinic so damn spotless, so faultlessly air conditioned, otherwise the elements would get out of balance. As it was, Stiles found himself showering much more frequently now, and had to carry an orange stick with him to clean out the smudge under his nails every couple of hours.

As he passed into his room, he briefly, lightly touched a rune that was carved into his doorway, re-powering it with his belief. It was already fairly powerful, but he liked to give it a bump every so often, just in case. It was like a battery recharge, reminding it of its job. Friends allowed, foes not. (He'd had that backfire on him once, much to his chagrin and delight: His dad had tried to come into his room to ground him last year, and couldn't pass through the doorway. Apparently the spell couldn't tell the difference between an angry father and an actual enemy.) The towel was dropped, and he glanced at himself in his closet door mirror, and he smirked a little bit. Long gone was the baby-faced lacrosse player, the skinny little guy who warmed the bench. Lydia had accused him of using magic to buff up his physique, and she was sort of right. In all actuality, he'd just started maturing, and running with werewolves, and learning his self and his earth and his spark. Like attracts like. As above, so below. Once his mind and heart had been sorted, his body sort of reluctantly followed, as if acknowledging that, oh yeah, bad-ass druid, better look good.

But the truth of the matter was he'd taken to doing exercises in his room, light hand weights, lots of sit-ups and push-ups. He'd never be as buff as Derek, but at least he could give himself some definition. Because damn it, he wanted to _get Derek's attention_ after all this time.

And apparently he had it.

The little smirk blossomed into a genuine smile as Stiles dressed himself, the tattoos disappearing under layers of clothing. V-neck white shirt, green pinstripe vest, skinny jeans, big belt, pork-pie hat. And finally the zero-prescription horn rim glasses. Yeah, okay, total poser, he'd cop to that. But they completed the look, damn it, and he liked the way they framed his face. (Besides, the polarized crystal lenses kind of hid the glow his eyes got when he got too excited. It wouldn't do for somebody outside the pack to notice that.) Another glance around his room; so much had changed since he was seventeen, and chasing down clues to figure out the occult shenanigans happening in the town. The corkboards and newspaper clippings were gone. The band posters had returned. But interspersed with them were other _odd_ things. A sage smudge stick, half charred, tucked in a corner of his desk. A deck of tarot cards, wrapped in green silk. A dreamcatcher made of elk hide, silk, and turquoise and lapis beads, decorated with dove feathers. His room was done in shades of green and blue now, with the occasional splash of red to make things interesting. It was the space of a teenage boy, while simultaneously being the space of a druid. Stiles found the ironic balance absurdly delicious. Because that's what he was all about. The Three Wolf Moon poster over his bed really drove that home. He snickered every time he glanced at it.

He was just grabbing his wallet when his phone buzzed at him. Text from Scott! He dove at his phone and grabbed it up, eagerly reading it.

`when r u coming?`

Stiles immediately texted back, his thumbs flying over the touch screen.

`b there soon u still want me 2 do my thing?`

Stiles was smug about what the plan for tonight was. It had been a very long time since any of the wolves had enjoyed one certain, very human experience, and tonight, New Year's Eve, they'd get a chance to enjoy it again.

`hell yes tho i might not just 2 make sure`

Stiles rolled his eyes at that, but it figured. Of course Scott wouldn't want to get high when the rest of his Betas were. Somebody had to be the sober one at the party, after all. Heh. The designated werewolf driver. That mental image made Stiles snicker again, as he tucked his phone away. Tonight was going to be one hell of a party, with five werewolves, one kitsune and one druid, all of whom were probably gonna be stoned off their asses. He was very confident it would work, after all, and nobody would lose control. It was like catnip, that was the best way he could mentally categorize it. Ultimately harmless, giving off a happy little buzz, but completely natural and sweet. He anticipated its imbibing leading to a huge werewolf cuddle pile.

And if it went wrong, he knew just how to stop it. He had the counter-herb and counter-spell ready to go.

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get Derek on board. The other wolves were one hundred percent cool with it. The only hold-out was a certain Grumpy Gus. Of course, that was mainly because the others had been too nervous to tell him, even Scott. Heh. The power of Derek's scowl was enough even when he was only a Beta. His eyebrows could intimidate at fifty paces. And Stiles felt a lovely warm glow in his stomach thinking about said scowl and eyebrows. He really had a strange standard of attraction, honestly. He'd get all fluttery crush stupid whenever Lydia had pulled her epic bitch-faces, after all. He found her bitch-face to be one of the sexiest things he'd ever seen.

Finally, just as the sun was setting, he was out the door, giving his father a brief kiss on the cheek as he ducked out. He was trailed by the words, "Have a good time, son, tell them Happy New Year for me. And no drinking and driving!" Stiles returned the promise, since he had no intention of getting a DUI tonight, and climbed into his trusty, battered Jeep. It still had a dent in the fender from when he slammed into that tree two years ago, one which he couldn't quite bring himself to get rid of. It was the physical evidence that he'd survived the Darach, that he'd finally rescued his father. That dent represented his heroics that long-ago night, and he was proud of it. But there were some other modifications he'd had done to the Jeep over the last year, too. There was salt-filled copper tubing around the insides of both doors and the trunk, slender and easy to overlook. There was a green silk satchel hung from the rear-view mirror, filled with mistletoe and lavender and one seed pearl that he'd bought from a jeweler. And most importantly of all, a brand-new GPS, top of the line. It was programmed with several predetermined routes, and he followed a different one every time. Even if it meant going a few miles out of his way, he had learned to travel _with_ the ley-lines instead of against them, or crossing them. Ever since he'd figured out that trick, he'd never hit a single red light, never had mechanical problems, never even had a single close call. It was as if every single car in Beacon Hills just got out of his way whenever he was driving. At first he thought it was maybe a little selfish to use his magic to never have car problems, but the week after he'd figured it out, he caught _Deaton_ following the same routes in his Prius, and figured it was just fine.

He pulled up to Scott's house after a following his circuitous route, seeing Michael's beat up Hyundai at the curb as well. Huh. Michael was here before Kira, that was unusual. Stiles bounced up to the front door, all grins, and when Scott answered there was a lot of hugging happening. Scott was still coming to grips with a lot of the new instincts that came along with being an Alpha, but one that he'd mastered right off was the physicality of it. Scott, always big on shows of affection, would wrap his pack members up in big, tight hugs every time they met. It wasn't exactly a show of dominance, not one of possessiveness. But it managed to be subtly both, and Stiles was happy to go along with it. They were a tactile bunch, this pack. Especially after they'd had to remove Peter from it. (Stiles bore the scar of that particular battle in the center of his stomach, four glossy puckers of scar tissue just above his belly button. Peter had pulled no punches, but then again neither had Stiles. The werewolf's four claws had left their mark, just before Stiles set him on fire for the second time.)

"Good drive?" asked Scott, hauling Stiles back to the present.

"As always," he confirmed with a grin. Stiles put his arm around Scott's waist, while the comforting weight of Scott's arm settled around his shoulders. As they walked into the living room together, Michael was up off the couch a second later, and pulling Stiles in for a hug himself. Michael was the latest addition to their pack, and a miracle in his own right; Michael was probably the world's first transgender werewolf. At the time, it had seemed impossible to reconcile; would the bite undo years of surgery and hormone therapy? Not even Derek had known the answer. But Michael took the chance anyway, on the off chance that, according to all werewolf lore, you took the form you deserved. The Kanima, _Jackson_ of all people, had paved the way for that belief. And the gamble had paid off: Michael began his new life as a werewolf with no gender problems at all. He was a tiny guy, only five foot four, very slightly built, his bright red hair sticking up and out at cowlicked angles no matter what he tried to do with it, his skin dotted with billions and billions of orange-brown freckles. He was as shy as Isaac had been, once upon a time, soft-spoken and sweet. Stiles hugged back tightly, and gave the boy a firm pat on the back.

"You ready to get werewolf wasted tonight, Michael?"

"God, yes," was the eager answer. "That is the only thing I miss about being human."

"Just that?" Stiles grinned, because that's how all the wolves felt, except for Derek. Derek didn't like being impaired, it reminded him too much of very bad things.

"Just that!" confirmed Michael, flopping back down on the sofa and digging in to the bag of Doritos on the coffee table. Of course, both he and Scott glanced up a second later, staring at the front door. A beat. And then the knock. Stiles had to chuckle at that, because he was used to the wolves reacting to things he couldn't sense yet. Olivia and Isaac entered at Scott's summons, all grins. Isaac was his usual curly-lamb self, a big wooly scarf flung around his neck and shoulders, immediately at his Alpha's side for a comforting hug. (Stiles pretended not to notice how both their auras brightened in the contact, just as the other wolves pretended not to notice the strong scent of repressed arousal.) Olivia was stunning as always, statuesque and muscular and perfectly dressed. (She really gave new meaning to the phrase "dressed to kill.") Stiles always helped pick out the beads at the end of her braids every month, a new color for each cycle of the moon. This month was purple and turquoise, and the beads clacked and clicked subtly as she made her way to the couch. Stiles suffered through a bone-crunching hug from the woman, hardly squeaking at all before she released him. At six foot four, she would have probably joined a professional women's basketball team, if she hadn't been in that horrific car accident. Scott had bitten her to save her life, and thus the sexiest, scariest werewolf ever had been born. She'd had the easiest time adjusting, her control almost perfect from full moon one, like she'd been born to become. As she settled down, Michael curled up in her lap. They weren't romantically involved. They'd never so much as kissed. As near as Stiles could figure, Olivia and Michael had a completely non-sexual relationship, closer to big sister little brother. But whenever they were in the same room, he'd latch on to her like a lamprey and only reluctantly let go, and she would growl at anybody who ever so much as even gave Michael a hard look. It was heartwarming, in a terrifying werewolf sort of way.

"Where's Kira?" asked Olivia, petting Michael's hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

"On her way," was the breezy answer from Scott, and Stiles raised an eyebrow. Kira could be as lamprey-like as Michael, honestly. She was usually the first one at Scott's side during pack meetings and problems. At least Scott hadn't gone as totally bonkers about her as he had over Allison, back in the day. The True Alpha had discovered his balance, finally. Now it just remained for Kira to find hers. A year and a half into the relationship, and she still had long, lingering months of doubt, doubt in herself, in what Scott felt for her, in her supernatural side. 

But then again, when the bright yellow fox slipped in through the open kitchen window and bounded up to Scott, Stiles figured she was on an upswing in that respect. Kira burrowed her way into Scott's lap and curled up, her big bushy tail swirling around her angular body. 

"Show off," muttered Isaac, rolling his eyes. Kira was the only member of the pack who'd mastered her full transformation. Scott was still unable to go full wolf, but Derek had assured him that was not a mental block. Even born wolves had trouble with that particular one, and Talia Hale had been the only person on the west coast who'd managed it in the last forty years. Kira raised her pointed muzzle and snapped her teeth in Isaac's direction, the kitsune equivalent of a stuck-out tongue. But then she settled as Scott started petting her, a contented whine escaping her as her ears were given a loving scritch.

Stiles was very good in never, ever asking his brother any awkward questions about Kira's animal self. And what they got up to when they gave in to their animal sides. Heh.

"I understand you've got treats for us, Stiles," interrupted Olivia, grinning brightly. "Yes or no, don't leave me hanging, boo."

"Yes." He reached into his satchel and pulled out a baggie full of what looked like a cross between an incense stick and a cat tail plant, long and puffy and brown. Along with it, he pulled out a set of rolling papers, a wicked grin on his face as he pulled the thing into long, stringy strands, like tobacco, and rolling each wolf the equivalent of a joint. "Behold, the first werewolf-compatible narcotic. Guaranteed to set even the stoniest heart a-flutter with happy vibes and impaired judgment, and none of the deleterious affects of aconite poisoning. Speaking of stony hearts, where the hell is Derek?"

"...Ah. Um. Yeah, about that."

At Scott's bashful admission, Stiles stopped rolling the cigarettes and looked up, annoyed.

"He said he wasn't coming, didn't he?"

"...Yeah."

Stiles huffed out an impatient sigh, and rolled his eyes. He thought he'd gotten through to Derek the week before, on his birthday, but apparently that had been an aberration. Scott kept scritching Kira, looking like his sixteen year old self, not at all the confident True Alpha. Scott and Derek's relationship had definitely mellowed, but Scott still couldn't bring himself to order Derek around. Not even to the point of making him come to a party.

"What did he say?" Stiles asked, continuing the preparations, stilling his suddenly-shaking hands.

"That he had better things to do than sit around watching a bunch of teenagers get stoned." Scott couldn't help it, he had to smirk at that, and he immediately felt bad about it. Stiles' crush on Derek was just getting worse and worse, and this little flub was sure to make things even more awkward. But before they could continue, they were interrupted.

"Hey!" protested Michael, pouting. "I'm not a teenager! I'm older than he is!" And that was true: Michael was thirty-four. But he was so tiny, and so sweet, that everybody forgot that fact. He _looked_ much younger than his age, after all, and being a werewolf had only made him more attractive. Olivia soothed her friend with a little coo, her hands over his.

"Honey, nobody's older than Derek. He's mentally in his eighties. He's a crotchety old man who has nothing but sheer cussedness in him. He reminds me of my grammy, rest her soul. Cranky and bitter and sassy and whacking people with her cane."

By the time she'd finished, all the wolves were guffawing at the mental image of Derek as Olivia's sassy grandmother. Even Kira was snickering, her foxy face clearly showing her amusement. But Stiles wasn't laughing. In fact, he was completely straight-faced, and looking very annoyed. Not with their banter, but with the fact that Derek, that stubborn son of a literal bitch, was not coming to their party. Stiles had _plans_ for tonight, damn it! And he wasn't going to be thwarted because Derek had his head up his ass. _Again._ But he finished rolling the first blunt, and held it up between two fingers.

"Okay. Who's my guinea pig?"

"Me," answered Isaac immediately, holding out one hand, like the pack had planned it that way. And that was how it should be; Isaac was Scott's loyal second, and if Scott couldn't or wouldn't partake, that meant next in the pecking order was Isaac. So as he lit up and inhaled the first tentative draw, Stiles watched him carefully. And he saw the moment it hit, took effect, and Isaac practically melted into the sofa with a relieved sigh. Yep, the herbal concoction was a definite hit. Heh. Hit. Stiles would have to see if he could get his hands on more Sarpagandha. That was the expensive part...

"Puff puff pass, Isaac," Michael reminded him gently, a smirk blooming on his face. Isaac complied, already completely blissed out, his pupils blown wide. Scott was sniffing the air tentatively, as if trying to decide if he wanted to partake as well, even as Kira buried her nose under her paws. Ah. Of course. She didn't want to be affected, hence staying in her fox form. Fair enough. But she was still there, still part of the pack celebration, unlike certain dark and broody bastards. As the wolves started down the short, straight road to total inebriation, Stiles picked up his phone and started a new text.

`get ur fuzzy little werewolf ass to scott's house in the next 20 mins`

He waited. And waited. And waited for a reply. He knew he was fidgeting, and to quell it, he pulled out a bottle of his own particular brand of intoxicant: Johnnie Walker Red. (There were bonuses to being human after all. All he needed to do to get drunk was ask Michael to hit up a liquor store for him.) He got up, got a glass from Scott's cupboard, poured himself two fingers, and belted it back. Warmth followed the drink down his sternum, to his stomach, and he flopped back down on the sofa as well. Watching the others get steadily higher was both amusing and infuriating, but he still rolled them a second joint. This time, Scott got first toke. Then, at minute seventeen, Stiles finally got an answer from his sour wolf.

`Or what?`

Heh. Derek was the only person in the world who used proper grammar, capitalization and punctuation in text messages. Stiles smirked as he replied, the wolves in the room ignoring him completely.

`or i'll take back my protection spell better hurry u only have 3 mins left`

Then, he deliberately turned off his phone and sat back.

"I have claws," sighed Isaac suddenly, his voice dreamy and distant, which prompted a long, low giggle fit from the others. Even Kira yipped her amusement, and snuggled in closer to Scott. Heh. Contact high. Soon, all the werewolves were comparing their clawed hands at each other, oohing and aahing over the sight of them. Stiles was amazed. This was more effective than he thought, there wasn't a shred of violence left in any of them. And, yes, there was indeed a big werewolf cuddle pile going on, nuzzling each other and chuffing happily in between the giggles. There wasn't much conversation, but a lot of touching and happy sighing.

Stiles even got in on the act, when Olivia put one long arm around him and pulled him in close, scenting the top of his head and rumbling contentedly.

It was in this position that Derek found them, at minute thirty-five.

"You're late," accused Stiles, pointing at him, taking in the stunned, annoyed, and above all angry look on his face. "By fifteen minutes. You're lucky I'm in a good mood, you jerk."

Derek's incredible eyebrows shot up, a bemused look on his face, and then he sighed.

"You know what a colossally bad idea it is to take away a werewolf's control, right?" Derek looked incredibly upset, as if Stiles had done something utterly unspeakable. And behind his non-prescription lenses, Stiles' eyes sparked. He rose up to defend himself, a surge of excitement and need making his heart beat faster.

"Ah, but that's the thing! I didn't!"

Stiles wriggled out from under Olivia's arm, which prompted an annoyed growl from her, which Stiles ignored. (She really was a bit handsy with him even when she was sober, but he put up with it. He selfishly enjoyed the attention, even if she wasn't his type.) He handed Derek a joint, and rolled it over just so; inscribed on the rolling paper was a charcoal new moon, when a wolf's control was the strongest. Stiles had built the spell in, letting everybody know he'd done it, and Scott had approved. 

"A simple spell," he murmured to Derek, handing it to him. "Trust me. I won't let anything happen to you. I won't let anything happen to the pack. Let go, please."

His voice was low, and soothing, and it put all the wolves at ease, all of them visibly relaxing back into their seats, snuggling up closer. Derek was now the only member of the pack not involved, and it showed. It showed in his posture, the darkness in his eyes, the way he was slightly hunched back and away from Stiles. For just one moment, Stiles was sorely tempted to make it happen with a simple touch, but he knew that would backfire on him sevenfold. Derek could not be _made_ to participate in this. If he didn't...well, at least some of the pack would have a happy night full of happy dreams. But if Derek did participate...

Derek could see Stiles practically vibrating with power, and his condemnation slowly turned into curiosity. There was more here than just a bunch of people getting stoned, Derek could see that now.

"What if I don't want to smoke?" he asked quietly, and Stiles nodded.

"You don't have to. But give it a try, maybe?"

There was a long, wordless moment, where Stiles gazed into Derek's eyes, silently pleading with him. And then Derek sighed, and shook his head, putting the joint up to his lips. Stiles was there a second later, lighting it eagerly.

Soon, they were all lost in the haze of smoke, the new year counting down, happy and drifting together, contented and high as fucking kites. Stiles was very, very proud of himself for this night's work; all he ever wanted was to give his pack security, safety and happiness. He wasn't their Alpha...but he was their Emissary, their constant reminder of their humanity, the tether to the outside world. He could give them the gift of release, of relaxation, of beautiful visions and sweet intimacy. The drug would not work on him, but that's what his whiskey was for, after all. He was unsurprised to see Kira eventually slip away, and then return girl-shaped, wearing one of Scott's t-shirts and a pair of his boxers. She smirked silently at Stiles, and then swiped his bottle. She could drink all of them under the table, after all, but she could still get drunk. (Memo to self: find out why kitsune could get sloshed but werewolves couldn't.) Less than an hour after Stiles had arrived, he was playing slightly-drunk host to a bunch of necking shape-shifters.

And he grinned. The pack deserved this sort of tactile bond. It wasn't about sex, but a different kind of intimacy.

Well, for _most_ of them it wasn't about sex, he amended to himself, while glancing at Derek's prone form. His shirt had rucked up slightly, exposing a sliver of perfectly muscled abs. And the man himself, well, he was wearing a big doofy grin, the kind that he hadn't worn in years, the kind which made Stiles' heart skip several consecutive beats. And he was so grateful that the other wolves were too out of it to notice. Derek's body had always driven him absolutely nuts with desire, and tonight was no different. Only now, the vulnerability there was a powerful aphrodisiac, as the man finally let himself just _feel._ No more second-guessing, no more repression, just relaxation. Stiles was swept by a powerful desire to run his fingers across Derek's flesh, map his planes and contours with light touches. Oh, damn.

When the countdown to midnight began, the others slurring the numbers slightly, Stiles crawled closer and closer to Derek. And when the clock officially struck the new day, the new year, the two of them were staring at each other through a haze. It shouldn't happen for the first time now, not when they were both impaired...but Stiles leaned in anyway and pressed a soft, chaste kiss against Derek's lips. 

"Happy new year."

There was a long, long pause where the universe held its breath. And then Derek _pounced._ He pulled Stiles into a deep, passionate kiss, nearly two years of repressed longing breaking free. And Stiles internally shouted with glee, buzzed with the power of it. It wasn't until he heard the lamp next to them pop its bulb that he reeled himself back in. Oops, he was throwing out too much juju again. He was glad he'd turned his phone off earlier.

When he came to, he heard the rest of the pack applauding delightedly, Scott even wolf-whistling, the bastard. And Derek blushed bright red, but didn't look unhappy about it.

"About time," snarked Olivia. Even stoned, the woman was over six feet of pure sass. "Derek, take our Emissary upstairs and relieve him of his useless virginity, already."

"Hey! Not in my bed!" protested Scott, which prompted Kira to giggle again. Now it was Stiles' turn to blush, and snuggle in closer to Derek. He was utterly gratified to feel Derek wind a protective arm around him, pull him in closer, scent his hair and the delicate spot behind his ear. Pleasant shivers went up Stiles' spine, and he flipped both Scott and Olivia the double deuce.

"We are not going to have crazy sex in this house," answered Stiles almost primly. "We're going to leave here tomorrow morning, after we sober up, and we're going to go someplace where none of you can follow us. And then I'm going to blow his mind."

"His mind and his dick, I'd hope."

Stiles called it a reflex action when he grabbed a cushion and flung it at Michael.

"I want to sober up first, yes," whispered Derek, sounding very vulnerable and almost worried. 

"I know," Stiles whispered back. "We will."

"Derek?"

Everybody looked at Kira when she spoke; she commanded the attention. Even Scott seemed to bow to her will, and that was a very strange thing. But even a True Alpha would listen when the child of a demon-god spoke.

"You're not acting against your own self-interest," she proclaimed. "You're not out of your mind. Stiles didn't get you high to take advantage of you. You are both in love with each other, and have been for a very long time. Embrace it. You'll be happier when you do."

Ah, the advantage of having a trickster on their side. When Kira made statements like that, they were always the absolute truth. It was part of her nature. It was when she waffled about a topic that you knew you were in for a rough time. Tricksters could use the truth like a weapon, or like a tool. Kira was one of the rare kitsune that preferred the latter method of truth-telling, thank god. Stiles was afraid of what would happen if they ever came across a true trickster. An issue for another day, because her words left Derek looking incredibly thoughtful.

"...You still with me in there, big guy?" Stiles asked tentatively.

He was answered with another long, searching, passionate kiss, which made him nearly black out with the pleasure. He knew he was throwing off wave after wave of all too human arousal, which was making the other wolves cough discreetly. Take it down to a six or so, Stilinski. You're freaking out the others. Although Derek seemed to enjoy it quite a bit...

"So...what are everybody's resolutions?"

Scott's voice was cheerful, and it finally got Derek to stop, to let Stiles gasp in a breath. And he shot his brother a look. Don't interrupt this dude, come on! This was karma for whenever he'd inadvertently cock-blocked Scott with Allison, he knew it. But then, Derek surprised him. Surprised them all.

"I've already made mine. And it's private."

"...Not that private," muttered Olivia. "We've figured it out, Derek."

"Shut up, Olivia."

She just laughed loudly at that, curling up close to Michael again. "If I weren't so stoned I'd be offended."

Stiles looked around at the pack; Scott and Kira, Olivia and Michael and Isaac, and finally Derek. And it felt so good.

"Happy new year, everybody."

"Happy new year," they all chorused back, before Isaac lit up another joint, passing it around again. Now this...this was a _party._ A new start, a sacred day, a symbol being passed, another symbol for Stiles to draw on. He had an idea for his next tattoo, a dark sundial without a shadow, a symbol for midnight. This midnight was one he was going to remember for a very, very long time.


End file.
